


summer's last chorus

by Laora



Series: just to know you'll still be breathing (when the years have been unkind) [1]
Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: A New Day spoilers, Autistic Rindo (TWEWY), Autistic Sakuraba Neku, Gen, NEO: TWEWY Trailer Spoilers, Non-binary Fret (TWEWY), Rindo is Neku's dead best friend, Temporary Character Death, a la the Reaper's Game, but i'm having fun so welcome to a new AU, this is gonna get blown out of the water the minute we get another trailer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:09:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27698773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laora/pseuds/Laora
Summary: Neku and Rindo: best friends, destined for tragedy. Two realities, two worlds, where one survives and the other does not.Then the Inversion of Shinjuku happens, and the barriers between realities become more of a suggestion.
Series: just to know you'll still be breathing (when the years have been unkind) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2025703
Comments: 32
Kudos: 55





	summer's last chorus

**Author's Note:**

> look,,,,,,,,, i made a twitter shitpost and then I got way too excited about the possibilities so welcome to my new AU
> 
> headcanons:  
> neku and rindo are both autistic  
> rindo has a crap immune system (which is why he wears a mask around)  
> fret is hard of hearing and nonbinary as hell (he/they)  
> importantly: rindo is neku's dead best friend mentioned in Another Day and week 1
> 
> the premise is that NEO: TWEWY is set in a parallel universe to TWEWY's, where Rindo's friend Neku died years ago in an accident. NEO's the aftermath of AND, where he and the others are roped into saving all the versions of Shibuya - and maybe TWEWY-universe Neku in the process
> 
> like the tags said, as soon as we get more info on NEO this is gonna be SUPER non-canon-compliant. also, i know it doesn't explain everything from the trailer, but FUCK IT, i'm having fun

When you were younger, you had a friend.

* * *

You hate the city you live in. It’s too loud, and too close, and too _much._ You used to hate it more, but ever since you got CAT’s amazing headphones for Christmas, the noise has been a little more manageable.

They’re purple, your favorite color. They’re soft and warm and like a heavy blanket over your head, and some days you refuse to take them off because they’re the only thing that keeps you grounded in reality.

* * *

Your parents don’t want you to make too many friends at school.

You don’t understand all the words that they and your doctors throw around over your head, but you understand that if you get sick, it’ll be worse than if your sister does. If your classmates do. You might need to spend more time in the hospital.

You _hate_ the hospital.

And after all, it’s not like the other kids are interested in being your friend anyway, right? They laugh at you, since you’re the shortest in the class. They ask why you wear a mask to school every day, even when you’re not sick. They’re _jerks,_ and you’re more than happy to stick to yourself, and your books, and your fantasy worlds.

You don’t need them, anyway.

* * *

One day, a classmate with yellow hair comes up, playing with his fingers, his gaze latched firmly on the pen in your hand, and asks where you got your headphones.

* * *

One day, you notice a boy in your class who doesn’t talk much, just like you. He likes to draw, and stare out the window, and he eats lunch by himself, in the corner, with shiny purple headphones over his ears.

* * *

You decide that you want to be his friend.

* * *

You’re ten years old, and your parents are spending more and more time at work.

It’s okay, you try to reason. It’s not like you’re starved, or abused, or smacked or anything like what you see on TV. It’s just that...well, you don’t see them very often anymore.

They never seemed to _get you,_ anyway, brushing off your requests for homework help or ignoring you when you want to talk about your day at work. “You talk too much, son,” your father says, not looking at you over the top of his newspaper. “We’ve had a long day—we’d like some peace and quiet at home.”

Except your parents are some of the only people you _want_ to talk to—you’ll answer questions if you’re called on, in class, or even work in a group if you need to. But on bad days, it’s like you’re pulling every word out of the back of your throat with burning tongs. It leaves you _exhausted_.

On other days, though, all you want to do is talk. About your day at school, or about the new music that CAT released, or about the picture you just finished—or about the colors of the trees outside, or how you heard a bird singing on your walk home, or—or—or—

More often than not, anymore, your parents aren’t home to listen. You end up talking for hours to an empty apartment, tearing up the skin around your fingernails just to keep yourself from turning to stone.

* * *

“Hey, can I come over tonight?”

You look up at your friend, who’s fiddling with a little square of paper as he looks over your shoulder. “Prob’ly,” you say, tilting your head. “It’s okay on a school night?”

He shrugs, and crumples the paper in one fist. “My parents are out of town,” he says. “All the food they left tastes bad in my mouth.”

Well, it’s not like you can argue with that, right? So you drag him along at the end of the day to the high school across the street, begging your sister to borrow her cell phone and check with your parents.

“My friend wants to come over for dinner,” you say into the receiver, without an introduction, and your words come out all fast and jumbled. “His parents aren’t home and the food he has left tastes bad can he eat with us _please?”_

Your mom’s quiet for a few moments. You’ve told her all about your friend, when you get home from school and talk at her non-stop as you pull out your homework. And she’s been worried, obviously, because if he got you sick then you’ll have to go to the hospital and _no one_ wants that. But then again, your mom loves to cook and loves to make people happy, and eventually she caves.

“Is he allergic to anything?” she asks, and you hesitate, glancing over your shoulder to your friend as you repeat the question.

He shakes his head. “Nothing slimy,” he says, and you make a face. Yeah, slimy food is _gross._

* * *

Your friend’s apartment is way busier than yours. It’s kind of overwhelming.

You’re used to three people—or, more often, just one—but this apartment holds your friend, and his sister, and his parents, and his grandma, too. Your hands itch for your headphones for a barrier, but you left them to charge on your desk.

His grandma looks at you a lot, tonight, as you dig into dinner. It’s good, you like it. It’s not even close to slimy, and a lot of the tastes are familiar. You watch your friend to make sure you didn’t forget any table manners, and almost forget the blessing before digging in.

His grandma does a lot of looking today, but then, you stare at people, too. You don’t think it’s too weird.

* * *

“I’m glad you found yourself such a good friend, dear.”

Dad’s left to drive your friend home since it’s past dark. You’re sitting in the living room with your grandma and sister, watching TV, and you look over at your grandma when she speaks up.

“What?” you ask, and she smiles.

“That boy’s just like you,” she says, and tilts her head. “You seem to get along very well.”

You think on this. Yeah, you guess, you’re more comfortable around him than anyone else, even your family, sometimes. He doesn’t ask for eye contact, or tell you to sit still, or tell you to shut up if you talk for too long.

“I like him,” you agree with a big grin, and your grandma’s smile only grows wider.

* * *

No one else gets you, or your weird habits, or your tendency to lose your voice out of nowhere, as well as he does.

You don’t know what you’d do without him.

* * *

You spend more time at your friend’s house than your own, anymore.

His sister teaches you to dye your hair—a bright orange just like Jupiter of the Monkey, and your teacher’s shriek when you walk into school on Monday is almost made up for by the comfort you feel when you look in the mirror. You feel more right, this way.

Your friend’s blinding smile, the first time he saw it, more than filled up the rest.

His parents know you better than your own, you think—his mom learns really fast what kinds of food you can’t eat, and what kinds of sounds you can’t listen to. His dad tells you to bring your headphones over, if you ever think you might need them. His grandma smiles at you, always, warm and friendly, and you wonder if this is what families are supposed to be like.

* * *

You get sick.

It’s not anything life-threatening or even serious, but your parents are worried enough that you’re admitted to the hospital for observation. You’re twelve years old, and you hate it here.

Your friend texts you, when you don’t come to school—and you only hesitate a moment before telling him where you are. Barely half an hour after school gets out, he’s at your door with a convenience store bag in one hand, his headphones around his neck, his brow sweaty like he ran the whole way here.

“Are you okay?” he asks, anxious, and makes a bee-line for your bed. He dumps the bag on your lap: it’s full of both of your favorite candies, and two cans of soda, and a bag of chips each.

You pick up a candy bar and unwrap it, biting into it heartily. The nurses will probably be upset, but you don’t really care right now. “I’m fine,” you promise him. “It’s probably the flu. Since my immune’s system all screwed up, they wanted to make sure I was here in case anything happened.”

He takes a shaky breath, reaching for the edge of the blanket and fiddling with it with both hands. “Promise?” he asks, very quietly, and you take another bite, as if to prove your point.

“Promise.”

* * *

Then, everything goes wrong.

* * *

You’re fourteen, fresh into high school, and there’s a new movie coming out that you really want to see.

Generally, both of you avoid movie theaters for the overwhelming noise and the greasy popcorn and the sitting in one place for two hours. But your friend jumps at the opportunity—he’s been waiting for this one, just like you. You snag a pair of midnight premiere tickets, some of the best seats in the house.

You sit next to him in the packed theater, sipping at your soda and staring, wide-eyed, at the screen. Neither of you notice the kid sitting next to your maskless friend, sniffling his way through the movie with a hacking cough.

* * *

Your friend’s birthday is coming up, and you know _exactly_ what you’re going to get for him.

Normally, you’re really bad at picking out presents, but for him, this year, it’s practically a no-brainer. CAT’s his favorite thing, his whole _world_ some days. He says he wants to be an artist, just like them, when he’s done with school. He keeps meticulous care of his headset; it looks practically brand new, even though it’s pushing five years old.

 _And,_ you have it on good information that CAT’s unveiling a new mural next week. Sure, his birthday isn’t until next month, but—you bet an early present like _this_ is okay. After all, you’ve got special permission from your parents to take him to Udagawa, so long as it’s in the middle of the day, and neither of you have ever been allowed there before—it’ll be like a whole new adventure.

You can’t wait to see the way his eyes grow bright as he looks up at his favorite artist’s latest work.

* * *

“Sweetie, please don’t panic, but Rindo was just admitted to the hospital—”

* * *

You wait for hours by the mural, but Neku never shows up—

* * *

You shut down.

You’re the one who asked him to that movie. You practically _gave_ him pneumonia, caused the lung failure that the doctors couldn’t stop—

It was you, all because you wanted to go see a stupid film that you didn’t even really like that much, in the end. He’s dead, now, and it’s your fault. His parents ask you to sit with them, at the wake and funeral, but you can’t even bring yourself to show up.

You murdered their son. You resolve never to talk to them again.

* * *

Your mother comes to collect you, hours later. The sun’s setting, by now, and you _promised_ her you wouldn’t stay in Udagawa this late because she worries, and you know you’re probably going to get lectured for it.

But your friend never came to meet you, and that’s more worrying than everything else put together. Your mother has tears in her eyes, when you look up at her face briefly. Something like a stone is sinking into your gut as she reaches out, pushing your hair from your face and grasping for your hand.

“Sweetie,” she says, very gently, and her voice cracks. “I’m so sorry, there was an accident—“

* * *

Stalker’s too much. She’s loud, and she’s obviously trying _way_ too hard, and—

And she avoids eye contact, and fidgets with her pig, just like you. Just like—just like someone you can’t remember, because you can’t remember _anything,_ and if you weren’t busy fighting for your life, you think it’d drive you mad.

Rhyme gets swallowed up by that shark Noise, and Beat makes an awful noise in his throat like he’s dying, and _it’s just like that one time_ except you have no idea what your brain is talking about. And anyway, no matter how much Beat annoys you, even _you’re_ not enough of a dick to just leave him to die here alone.

You’ll deal with your missing memories later. You’re not ready to lose anyone else, just yet.

* * *

You cry, a lot. For weeks, months, years—you just get better at hiding it.

Your best friend is dead, all because you asked him to an unfamiliar part of town, and he didn’t understand the traffic flow, and he stepped out into the street when he shouldn’t have and there was a car and—

And you might as well have killed him, yeah? You should’ve asked your dad to drive the two of you there. You should’ve met him at his apartment and walked there together. You should’ve given him instructions on how to get there safely, since he is (was) so by the book, meticulous, about following directions. If you had just warned him about that intersection, then—

Your therapist says that you shouldn’t dwell on the past, that it wasn’t your fault. Maybe, you think, given time, you might be able to believe it.

Your classmates give you space—too much, and it’s awkward, even though this is the beginning of high school and it’s supposed to be a fresh start. The kids you went to middle school with know that you’re weird—and the rumor spread quickly about your friend. People leave you alone, generally—and while once you might’ve appreciated it, the silence is deafening.

You wish, more than anything, to be able to wear his headphones and block out the world.

* * *

Stalker—no, _Shiki_ —she’s gone. She’s your Fee, now, and you’re Partnered to this _jackass_ for a round two, and you could scream except you’re still overwhelmed with the influx of memories.

Your friend, wasted away in a hospital bed, ghastly pale. Slipping away while you were at school, his parents at his side. His parents who swore to you that it wasn’t your fault, but you _know_ it was, and you remember, now, why you swore against making friends ever again. You’re toxic, burning everything you touch.

If you’re not careful, you’ll do the same to Shiki. Maybe (you think, a spike of panic in your heart) you’re already too late.

“Oh, Neku,” Joshua calls, sing-song from the curb, where he’s clicking impatiently through his phone. “I thought you needed to complete the mission?”

You blink, hard, and scrub both hands through your hair, and do your best to focus. You have to do this.

It may be too late for your friend, but Shiki—she’s not gone, not yet.

* * *

The other kids avoid you—right up until they don’t, and a kid whose gender you couldn’t guess at plops down opposite you at lunch.

“What’re you doin’ all by yourself?” they ask bluntly, and you blink at them.

“Eating,” you say, very quietly. Talking is like pulling teeth; words have been hard today. You and your friend—you were talking about learning sign language, before...before.

“Sure, but like, where’s your friends?” the kid asks, cocking their head to one side. They set their lunch bag down on the table, and something you can’t identify goes skittering through your chest.

“My friend died,” you choke out, and then clench your teeth shut, sure that those are the last words you’ll be able to manage today.

The kid lets out a great _whoosh_ of air, and you’re almost grateful that they’re about to leave. “That fuckin’ bites,” they say, their voice more somber, and does not move from their seat. “Well, uh, I’m new here, so I don’t have anyone to sit with. You mind if I stay here today? My name’s Fret.”

You shrug, non-committal, and can’t force your throat to say a single word. After a second, Fret shrugs back, and digs out a sandwich from their brightly-colored lunch box.

Their presence is strange, after so long by yourself. But it’s not as bad as you’re expecting.

* * *

You’re dead all over again, and Shibuya’s toast, but then you’re back in the Scramble with a pounding heart and nausea ripping up your throat and tears pouring down your cheeks and—

And Joshua changed his mind, or something, because the city’s still standing and still vibrant as always. Your friends are alive, too, as you tear through social media that night trying to find them, and you promise to meet up with them as soon as you can—

(But one friend’s still gone, isn’t he? And you know, now—if he didn’t come back, then he must’ve lost the Game. He must’ve lost and been Erased, and now he’s gone for good. And the only thing you can think is that if you had died only a year earlier, then maybe—maybe you could’ve Partnered with him, instead, and you could’ve saved him—)

* * *

Fret’s a weird kid (“none gender, left boy” when you finally ask him his pronouns), but you find that he’s growing on you, as he sits down across from you the next day, and the next, and the next.

At some point, you assume that you must be friends by now. You’re not sure, though. The only other friend you’ve had, you established a clear beginning of the relationship, and with Fret, it’s just kind of...fallen into place.

They’re good at being quiet, too. “Sometimes, if the lecture’s too boring, I pretend my hearing aids died,” he confides in you one day, a wicked grin on his face as he gestures to the bedazzled devices in his ears, barely discernible from the earrings up and down the side. “Can’t hear worth a damn without them unless you’re shouting right at me. If you don’t wanna talk, that’s totally cool—we’ll just be the quiet table today.”

They’re familiar, and laid-back, and nothing like your (old) friend except maybe just the sense of friendship and camaraderie, it’s—it’s nice, you think. It’s good to have someone to talk with over lunch, to invite home over the weekend to play video games.

Your mom cries, when you ask whether you can bring a friend over. You don’t think you’ve ever heard her agree to something so quickly.

* * *

You’re getting visions of another world. Another future. Another city, maybe, except the more you see them, the more you’re certain they’re about to become reality.

Coco’s voice is like nails on a chalkboard, and Beat’s anxiety is tangible as the three of you tear through this not-quite-right Shibuya. You don’t know what’s coming. You just know it’s _bad._

Then the gunshot rings out, and Beat _screams,_ and Joshua’s eyes widen as you crumple to the ground. In your dying moments, you find that you aren’t even really that surprised.

* * *

You’re in Shibuya, except it’s _wrong,_ and people are walking through you like you’re not even there. Fret’s next to you, nervous energy in every inch of their body, and there’s—there’s a girl, too, with glasses and purple hair.

And then there’s another kid. He feels a little wrong and a little out of place, in a way you can’t put your finger on.

He calls himself Sho, and he’s obnoxious with his math puns and his megaphone and his _horrific_ sense of style that Fret wrinkles his nose at. He talks about Shinjuku, Inverted. He talks about how Shibuya’ll be next, unless the three of you help him stop it.

“Why us?” Nagi snaps, and clutches her bag closer to her chest. Sho looks at you, then, his grin wide and predatory.

“A little decimal told me you know Neku Sakuraba,” he says, and you feel light-headed as the world shifts out from beneath your feet. Fret reaches out to stabilize you, their eyes wide and worried, but you only have time for the stranger in front of you who knows a boy who’s been dead for years.

“He’s _dead,”_ you say, and Fret’s grip on your arm tightens as Nagi gasps. Sho’s grin grows, and grows, and grows.

“So are you, fractal, in his Shibuya,” he says, and cocks his head. “You 2 are integral to our survival. You’re here, and he’s in the Imaginary plane. Parallel cities, except he’s divided by zero too many times and got stuck. So the real question is, do you wanna return him to the equation, or not?”


End file.
